Of cooks and morning routines
by Ahija
Summary: He prepares their drinks because he's a cook, and he knows how they work and what they need because he loves them. It's nothing extraordinary. Nakamaship.
Sanji always wakes up first, with the first hints of sunlight on the horizon, when the blackness of the night slowly and gradually gives place to grays. Sometimes he can still see a star or two glimmering in the sky, but he has long ago stopped trying to guess their names or constellations. In New World even stars seem to shift and change, or rather – human perception does, causing distorted, illusory images. How Nami manages to navigate in these conditions is beyond him.

He stops by the railing for a smoke and admires them nonetheless.

He then goes to his kitchen, mentally going through the dishes he wants to prepare for the day. Pancakes for breakfast, spaghetti for dinner, what about a supper? Ah, right…

Without stopping his inner train of thoughts, he puts kettle on. Then he gets engrossed in other preparations until he hears the water boil. He carefully brews some coffee and places it on the kitchen table. After making sure it looks presentable, he turns back to dough he abandoned a moment ago.

The coffee barely has time to stop steaming when the door opens and Robin walks in. She nods her greeting with a smile, still a bit drowsy from sleep. Sanji nods too. There's no place for his wooing and compliments in those gray hours of the morning, when it's so quiet it seems the world outside this kitchen doesn't exist. As minutes pass, there's only quiet simmering of the pan and the scent of Sanji's cigarette and Robin's coffee filling the air. It feels otherworldly.

Brook enters, humming softly to himself but the spell is not broken, not really. Sanji pours hot milk he heated up after Robin came, because Brook is as predictable as her. The moment anyone else but the cook rises, Brook is right after them. Sanji remembers he wondered whether the skeleton slept at all, or if he just spent night hours awake, laying in bunk with everyone and waiting for the moment it's acceptable to be up again. He though it would be sad.

The truth was sadder.

Because, after they've known each other long enough to feel comfortable with personal questions, he learned that Brook does, indeed, sleep. And he _hates_ it.

 _It feels too much like death_ , he said. And Sanji could never, _never_ presume to understand, but as the sun rises and the first crewmates show up on deck, he knows to expect Brook right after. And so he has his hot milk prepared.

He listens to the soft voices behind him, as his hands prepare the dishes almost without using his mind. The sun is over horizon by now, basking the kitchen in a warm light, cleansing it from the last shadows of the night.

The order from now on gets a bit less precise, but Sanji can still make a good guess.

It would be Chopper, if somebody on the ship was sick and needed to be checked on in the morning. Sanji would prepare hot chocolate, indulging his sweet tooth (and making sure he won't eat any candies until after dinner. For a doctor, Chopper shows a surprising disregard to the sweets' influence on one's health)

It would be Usopp, if he didn't manage to finish his last invention the night before, and the chicory coffee would wait for him (coffee, because it seems mature and manly and chicore, because Usopp still can't stand the real one. It makes Sanji wonder. Who does he try to impress when they all know their sniper's worth already? But he prepares the coffee and makes sure to place sugar and cream within reach, pretending not to see when they are sneaked into the cup)

It would be Franky, if the ship took a damage impossible to fix at one go (though Franky would certainly try - doing everything at once and _perfectly_ , and the failure would only left him tired and grumpy next morning. Sanji would have a whole stock of cola prepared)

It would _not,_ under any circumstances, be his captain or that green haired excuse of a intelligent being. Those two can sleep through the hurricane (they did, in fact) and only wake up well into morning. (The booze and the juice cool in the fridge anyway, waiting for the moment they graciously _do_ get up)

But today it won't be any of them. He knows there's been no injuries or diseases, no broken parts of the ship, and Usopp's last experiment has blown in his face yesterday's evening. However, he also knows that the weather has been bad lately, requiring their navigator constant attention and leaving no time for herself. And the maps won't draw themselves.

So he takes a tea-leaves and, very carefully, prepares strong, orange-flavored tea. And just as he sets it down on table, right next to Robin's now half empty cup, Nami opens the door.

The smile she gives him is sleepy, but so full of love and gratitude he feels almost unworthy to receive it. Because, what did he do, really? Nothing extraordinary.

He prepares their drinks because he's a cook, and he knows how they work and what they need because he loves them.

That's all there is to it.


End file.
